


Before the Storm

by SweetBirdi



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, did you fuckers miss me, those who know Burning Tides know who dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetBirdi/pseuds/SweetBirdi
Summary: A rescue mission. Or, how Tobias came to lose everything.





	1. Deluge.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone.  
> So... this is it. My magnum opus so far. I've worked on this fic for a little over a year now and I have to say it's seen some rough times. At one point I was really close to deleting the entire google document -- all, at the time, 25 pages of it. Now it's almost at 33, still unfinished, and I'm really nervous to be putting this out here.  
> So far, BTS is unfinished but I do plan on completing it! I'll be uploading chapters once they're done to see if people really are interested in this big pet project I've been hinting at for the past 13 months.  
> So please enjoy chapter 1 of Before the Storm.  
> The characters of the Brick, Kolt, and Wallach are inspired by those portrayed by ask-cutsquad.tumblr.com

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” 

_―_ _Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese poet and writer._ _1883-1931._

* * *

There’s a significance to all of the memories in a person’s life. No matter how wonderful, nor how ugly and harmful, the things humans go through will stick with them forever. Curiously, it seems to be the menial details that are remembered. The temperature of a fever when your first child is sick, the hush of snowfall on the eve of your parent’s funeral, and the scent of a late grandmother’s home furnishings. Or, for instance, the weather on the day when Tobias met Malcolm.

It was strangely warm and sunny, bringing about a hubbub of life to the boardwalks. Late afternoon sun tickled the back of Bilgewatians who had decided to go out for a stroll in the hazy heat. Portly house husbands walked out of their homes and met with friends in the street, gossiping about their spouses before immediately heading to their favorite pubs. There would always be a feeling of hardness in the community along the shoreline, but on lazy days like this it was easier to get along. 

It is for that exact reason, Tobias often reflected, that the day went so well in the first place.

He had long since set up a sort of business spot on the northern docks, sitting on a set of old crab traps and waiting for the right sucker to come by and take a gamble with his cards. At the time, Tobias was young enough to appear inconspicuous; Bilgewatian children often had already mastered the art of pickpocketing and trickery, but even still they were… well, Tobias liked to use the term “under-appreciated”, but he was sure others could find different ways to describe them. The point was, they were able to get by with the use of their wits and by taking advantage of a grown-up’s ignorance. 

Tobias, in  _ this _ regard, was no different.

In many, many,  _ many  _ others, he was as strange as could be. For one, it was hard to call him a child anymore. He'd recently met his nineteenth year, and it was starting to show in the patch of facial hair that he'd finally been able to muster. He also stood out like a sore thumb amongst the reds and browns of the Bilgewater-made leather and cloth that the civilians wore in the greens and silver River clothes he had kept for nearly a year. His inarticulate grasp on the common tongue also left something to be desired while scavenging the streets. Instead of letting these disadvantages hold him back, Tobias had learned to utilize them. Now there was no possible way to track him with physical records due to the language barrier, and the odd clothing meant he could be seen easily when he wanted to be. Tobias was content, to say the least, with what fate had forced him into. 

Which brought him to this day, sunny and bright and unassuming. 

A crowd had gathered around him, all pushing and shoving light-heartedly. Tobias was being fair with his gambling; the stakes were not too high and he was able to cheat using the simplest of tricks. He’d be able to afford dinner tonight, which is all that mattered to him.

“Bah,” a large woman threw down her cards and tossed her heavy dreadlocks behind her head. She tutted, but grinned lopsidedly at him. “Yer smarter than y’look, lad. Can appreciate’at.”

Tobias offered her a chirping laugh as he pocketed the coins on the overturned box serving as a dealing table.

“It is how I was raised.” he said. The woman squinted at him as though trying to think through his accent. Eventually she shrugs and stands, grumbling to herself about losing her pocket change to a ‘river rat’. 

Tobias had long learned to ignore comments like that — after all, he wasn’t much of a Riverman anymore. Shuffling his cards, he peered up at the congregation before him.

“Now, is there anybody else ready to pay up?” 

The crowd rumbled together, debating if they should step forward. A Bilgewatian may be cocky, but deciding on who gets to show off is more complicated than the spitting contest itself. He clicked his teeth.

“Nobody who wants to lose to a foreign child?” he taunted, flipping the cards between his hands. The muttering only grew, fueling Tobias’ attitude. “Is everybody afraid that their pockets will be emptied by a kid?” 

“I’ll take a swing at it.” A gruff voice said. Tobias glanced towards the source to see a burly young man pushing past the crowd. 

He couldn’t have been much older than Tobias. Youthful mischief glinted in his eyes and in his crooked smile. He was broadly built and wore it proudly in how he held himself. He sported a thin, dark mustache that looked like it had just begun to grow. He walked with his feet wide apart and his shoulder jutted out in front of him, like he used his upper body to move his lower. If it weren't for the avid compliance to the Bilgewatian aesthetic, he would look like a shaved grizzly bear. 

Tobias raised an eyebrow. 

“It seems I have a challenger.” he commented before raising the stranger four silver pieces. The man watched his fingers carefully, already suspicious of the riverman, before matching the bet with a silent grin. Tobias smiled back. 

“Your deal, stranger.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes with a jerk, panicked, finding it hard to breath, searching around for something- anything- that would give him clue as to where he was and why he was there. The soreness in his muscles and bones blinded him for a moment, making him double over with hands on his torso with a heady groan. His head ached — had something hit him? Most likely. He must’ve been out for a while. There are scrapes and healed cuts on his hands and arm— from jumping over the barbed wire fence, he imagines. A few days at the most, then? The marks hadn't been deep. Nothing presently hurts aside from his head, which is  _ typically _ a good sign.

Tobias peers around the room, once having deduced the time he spent asleep. With a wave of comfort, he realizes he’s in his quarters — the small portside window shines morning light into the room, the rickety bed under Tobias’ hands is still threadbare and moth-bitten and it still reeks of gunpowder and cigarettes. Outside he can hear gulls crying, the ocean lapping delicately at the hull. He smiles, and leans back into his pillow. A mindless hand wanders, creeping, over to the left side of the bed. The bed is warm and soft, and he’d be perfectly fine if he could just lay there and snuggle. His fingers continue, lackadaisical, over the wrinkled sheets, finding only air. 

He sits up slowly, eyeing the  _ empty _ bed. Malcolm isn’t here. 

Strange. Did he not suffer any injuries in the heist? After all, it was  _ his  _ stupid idea to try and rob one of the esteemed Priggs vaults. He should suffer at least a portion of the consequences his partner had. Tobias’ fingers run over the rough bedsheets, slightly resentful that they were only warm where he had been resting. Did Graves also just  _ not  _ sleep in their room? The fight before the heist was bad, yeah, but it couldn’t have been  _ that  _ bad. 

He slides to the edge of the mattress and stands, taking a moment to let his legs remember how to be legs again. Pins and needles are slowly replaced by tissue and bone, and Tobias reaches his hands over his head to let his body crack in the satisfaction of being awake. He walks to the door of the captain’s quarters, rolling his arms and neck. He’s in the middle of massaging a knot out of his shoulder, deciding how best to bring out a patented “apology-not-apology” when he opens the door to see Kolt and Wallach are standing in a huddle, whispering to themselves. 

Two sets of dark brown eyes turn to him when the doors open. While it’s not uncommon for Wallach to look nervous and flighty, the downright stricken expression on Kolt’s face hits Tobias like a cold shower. 

“Tobias— ah, I mean,” Wallach straightens up, pushing his curly hair away back behind his ear. He won’t look at Tobias anymore. “Captain.” Tobias feels his heart freeze. Something’s definitely wrong. Numb from the overhanging anxiety between the trio, Tobias leans back on the doorway and crosses his arms protectively. Wallach may not be able to meet Tobias’ eyes, but Kolt still has no trouble. But instead of a challenging sneer or grin, she’s somber- grim as an old gull. 

Careful and collected as always, Tobias simply chuckles; if something’s the matter, he’s going to have to stay calm for them.

“ _ Captain? _ ” he asks, raising an eyebrow at the twins. “Now I  _ know _ somethin’s up when Wallach calls me captain and Kolt won’t correct him.”

He crosses his arms as Kolt and Wallach exchange glances; Wallach is fidgeting so bad Tobias is almost sure he’s full of wharfhoppers. Kolt looks downright pained. Jokes are not helping and it sends anxious fluttering through Tobias.

“Listen, Foxtrot,” Kolt starts, turning her hard gaze back to him. Discomfort squirms in his stomach, feeding the butterflies, as the creases of her frown deepen. “We’ve… got to talk about the heist.”

“Yeah, we do.” Tobias says, his laugh bubbling out of nerves now. “Like, why aren’t we celebrating? Where’s the booze? Matter a’fact, where’s the boozer himself?”

“Malcolm?” Wallach perks, and his fright damn near breaks Tobias’ heart. He falters at that, and the way Wallach and Kolt seem to flinch around his name. “He’s, uh—”

“Gone.” 

The twins snap their attention upward to the towering figure behind them. They stand up, backing away from the Brick, while the numbness spreads from Tobias’ fingers, up his arms, down his shoulders, through his back…

“Brick, wait, we were going to-”

“He got caught,” Brick says awkwardly, and Tobias does not take in the wringing of his hands. He can’t. He can’t focus. The knot is still in his shoulder. He thinks on how stiff his body feels. “He’s … they got ‘im in the Locker.”

The crew turns slowly to Tobias. They’re watching him. The silence in the air makes the waves down in the ocean seem loud, grating on nerves. Tobias tries to swallow, but can’t; tries to speak, but can’t; tries to move but can’t; tries to think but can’t; tries to breath but can’t; tries to seek comfort but can’t, because Malcolm’s gone, Malcolm was caught, and he’s alone in—

“The Locker..?” Tobias whispers. His voice sounds like he’s got a head full of cotton, and all the eyes on him threaten to burn him alive. He looks away from them, vision sentenced to the deck of the ship, where he can’t see his terror reflected by his crewmates’ eyes. 

The wood beneath their feet creaks, and he’s sure he can hear them talking, but nothing makes sense. Malcolm couldn’t have been caught; this is some cruel joke, surely, to get back at Tobias for being so rude and smarmy. What had he done recently? He did take Kolt’s shoes once, but he’d given them back because  _ give him a break, it’s a bad habit. _ Or was this was payback to him being a smartass in general? The shaking in his hands is so funny, he supposes, the goddamn panic attack is a big joke. They’d played worse pranks before, this was nothing, but Tobias would really like this particular charade to end. 

“Captain?” Wallach steps forward, and the gentleness in his tone is an afront to Tobias’ reeling panic. “Are— are you going to-”

“Don’t call me that,” Tobias says, sounding sleeker and smoother than he is feeling. His mouth is made of leather when the rest is turning to feathers and threatening to be blown away by the sea breeze. He swallows around the suffocating tightness in his throat. “I’m not your only captain—”

Wallach hesitates, looks to Kolt for support. “But… Graves—”

“Is  _ not  _ staying in that place.” 

The commanding tone in Tobias’ words shuts everything down — even the waves seem to quiet. Tobias raises his head, and only now does he realize the four of them are completely out at sea. There is no land. There is no dock. There is no port. Just endless miles of sea. The crew, baffled, searches for something to say.

“The Locker’s never been broken out of before,” says Kolt, ineffectively forcing her voice to not waver. “He’s not goin’ to get out of there just like that.”

Both the fact that Kolt still feels the need to prove him wrong  _ and _ the fact that she’s right only inflames Tobias’ fear — no one had broken out of the Locker in its history as an established facility. Tobias locks his jaw; if there’s something that life has taught him, it’s that there’s a first time for everything. 

“He won’t be doin’ it alone.” Tobias says coldly. The knot in his shoulder reminds him to stand tall, to raise his chin in defiance. “We’re breakin’ him out.”

The crew stares, and for once he does not immediately understand what they are thinking. It seems the Brick’s nervous energy has taken hold of all three crewmates, as told by each fidget they seem to have taken up- Kolt cracks her knuckles, Wallach picks at his cuticles, and the Brick shifts his weight to and from as they just  _ stand around  _ for—

Oh. They’re waiting for an explanation. A plan. He’s the sole captain of the Trifecta, now that he’s without Malcolm. Tobias’ jaw begins to ache with how hard he has it clenched. He makes a vow, in the silence of his own mind and in the chaos that is the sea, it is a solemn oath:

That will be the last time he allows the phrase “without Malcolm” to be applicable in his life. 

Tobias sets his jaw, steels his eyes, raises his chin. The crew seems to follow his lead, all growing an uncertain strength from his restitution. 

“Set a course for the nearest port. We’re going to need supplies if we’re going to help Malcolm.” he says, before forcing a tight, strict smile. “Poor guy’s bound t’get lonesome in there.”

 

* * *

 

“They’ve gotta be around here somewhere!”

“Keep lookin’ — they can’t be hidin’ that well!”

“Saw ‘em! They went’at way!”

Two bodies pressed against the cool brick of a nearby abandoned millhouse, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping in an inaudible duet, as the footsteps traipsing against cobbled streets begin to fade.

While that was  _ far  _ from the first time Tobias had been forced to run from his gambling spot, but it  _ was _ the first time he had to worry about someone else while running. The boy he’d gambled with, while very fun to be around and deceptively smart, wasn’t the most agile person on the docks. While Tobias could duck behind walls and hide and slip out of sight, the stranger wouldn’t settle on a place to hide until they’d been found and were forced to keep running. Tobias’ weak lungs couldn’t keep up with his indecisiveness. It was fairly frustrating. 

The voices fade away from their current hiding spot and both boys visibly relax with a heavy sigh. While Tobias slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, chest aching and throat burning, the stranger peeked around the corner to get one last lookout before letting a laugh roll out. The sound of it surprised Tobias; chummy and deep, his laugh was almost sinister in its friendliness, like he’d just smiled at you with a knife to your throat. It was charming, in a peculiar sense. And contagious — Tobias grinned up at him, and it earned him a crooked smile back. 

“Ain’t had a run like that in a while,” the boy said. “That trick you tried on me back there, with the way you put your cards away so fast — how’d you do it?”

“A lot of practice,” Tobias answered simply. “It is taught to many children on the River.”

“The River, huh?” the boy tilted his head and scratched his neck. After a short pause of silence, he sighed and sat against the opposite wall of the cramped alleyway. “That where you’re from?”

Tobias felt a hint of scrutiny at this question. The boy did not even know his name, and suddenly he was so curious about where he’d come from?

Curtly, Tobias nodded, and offered no more explanation. The boy caught his hint.

“Ah. Well, alright.” 

Not a wordsmith, then. They sat in silence for another beat. 

“What is your name?” Tobias asked.

The boy rolled his shoulders before throwing out an awkward hand. Tobias dimly realized it was a poor attempt to be civil -- despite robbing and running from a bunch of angry fishermen and drunkards.

“Malcolm Graves.” 

Tobias nodded slowly, but did not meet Malcolm’s hand. Not a terribly common name, almost sounded like his family hailed from some other region. Tobias didn’t think too deeply on it. 

“What ‘bout you?” Malcolm asked, putting the hand down in defeat... “Got a name, or are you just the swamp rat?”

A gnawing irritation filled Tobias. A despised title — not only looking down on Tobias for being from the Serpentine River, but a mockery of his banishment. He grit his teeth and sighed. A product of the community, surely. Having no patience with something like this wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Don’t call me that.” he said, maintaining an even tone. “Just call me Tobias.”

“Tobias, huh?” Malcolm scratched the beginnings of a beard on his chin, looking as thoughtful as a bear trapped in human’s clothes could. “Would’ya mind terribly if we did that schtick again? In a better location?”

Tobias cocked his head to the side. “How do you mean?”

“I mean gettin’ into a bar and workin’ a little bit of that magic of yours.” Malcolm leaned forward with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. If Tobias weren’t struggling to not scoot away from this frankly not-sweet-smelling man, he would have found his chaotic glee exciting. “Y’know, your cards, both of us can schmooze the crowd a little. What d’you say?”

Tobias sat back, pondering. It didn’t sound like a terrible idea — sure, what the hell was he supposed to do with a word like ‘schmooze’, but context clues are a beautiful thing — and he was kind of sick of having to fight to eat every night. Tobias’ cards, Graves’ know-how of the streets… 

“Which bar would we be going to?” Tobias asked. “There are a few I am not allowed to enter after making a few patrons unhappy.”

“Don’t mean nothin’.” Malcolm said, waving a hand. “We won’t be too long, if you’re as good with them cards as I thought. Just enough to get dinner. You in or not?”

Tobias paused. A smile crept over his face.

“Sounds like a deal.”


	2. Gale.

 Things in Tobias’ life are frequently easier said than done. Coming up with a breakout plan was definitely one of those things.

The first half of the day had been strictly dedicated to chores around the ship — things Graves never really enforced, and Tobias hardly thought about. His job was usually just to make sure nothing had been broken (miraculously, the Trifecta was sound). But with the news that Graves had been locked away for an indefinite amount of time in a high-stakes security prison floating around like a bright bauble inside his head, Tobias was not about to sit by and idle. He had set to work almost immediately, helping the Brick swab the deck and checking wind pattern and direction with Kolt, helping Wallach set sail and using his own wit to navigate the ship back to dock. They land in a small seaside town in Bilgewater known for its underdeveloped fishing empire and especially sneaky citizens. No one questions the appearance of the Trifecta’s small sails and hull pulling into the harbor, which makes grocery shopping easier.

Despite his growing apprehension and fear, Tobias is still able to haggle prices and get them a few fish heads for a low price, along with a large bushel of carrots, an apple that he snuck off a mealy-looking cart, and a few mostly-consistent descriptions of the Locker’s interior layout. He bites into the apple and chews it unhappily as he totes the food back to the Trifecta with Kolt.

Neither speak on the way to or from the market. Kolt isn’t fantastic at comfort, nor is she entirely perfect at calming words, and Tobias is too stuck in his headspace to find something to tease her about. The apple remains half-eaten in Tobias’ hands until he drops it haphazardly in the ocean. Kolt moves to scold him, but it’s quickly retrieved by a scuttling wharfrat who decided to take a dive for it. She bites her lip and puts her hand, complete with a wagging finger, down. It cheers Tobias up a little to know his fellow bottom-feeders have got his back sometimes.

He launches his energy entirely into preparing dinner as soon as possible, which means he can start planning earlier. He told the crew before starting the chores to begin thinking of ways to break Malcolm out, and every new idea turned over caused a deeper hole to be carved in Tobias’ body. The ship felt so quiet without him, so lacking in energy and vibrance. Wallach attempts to fill the void, but his sing-song voice and flute-like manner of speaking did maybe the opposite of comfort Tobias.

Dinner, like the entire day leading up to it, is quiet. Tobias barely picks at his food, both in the knowledge that fish makes his stomach upset and also the overwhelming instinct that they shouldn’t have to have a meal without Graves. It clouds his mind with grief, and he’s sure his palm now has permanent marks from his fingernails. His jaw is exhausted from being clenched so tight. The lack of food in his gut feels sharp and hollow, and it makes him irritable. Wallach attempts to make conversation a few times, but Tobias never responds. The entire ship feels his contagious tension, and he wants to be guilty about it but no emotion is able to get past the wall of stress and vexation building up around his heart and in his throat.

His food remains untouched as he sits, hands folded, at the table. His hard-set stare is placed upon the mottled wood table in the mess hall as the crew gathers their empty plates and takes them away. Every sound and sight is distracting him from his goal — the breakout needs to be quiet and thorough, but also simple enough to be easy to follow and execute. But the Locker isn’t world-renowned for nothing. Far too many horror stories have been passed around in pubs, rumors whispered on the tongues of ex-cons and pirates. How the Locker tortures men to speak about their crimes, how they don’t feed the prisoners for days, how hard they are worked. Priggs has turned the jail yard into his own personal labor farm, and every prisoner is a slave.

Thinking about Graves in shackles, bleeding and bruised and exhausted, makes the turbulent knotting in Tobias’ stomach worse. He gives up on forcing himself to eat and pushes his plate away.

The crew seems to have forgotten Tobias’ terrible eavesdropping habit, because as he’s sitting at the table with his chin in his hand, he can hear them talking behind the washroom door. His keen ears pick up harried hissing from Kolt and slow, rumbling offers of advice from the Brick. It punctuates his anxious silence, puts a sharp needle through the smoggy fear in his head.

He’s got to lead, now. To lead, you need a plan.

He stands from his seat and strolls, confidently, over to the washroom. He opens the swing door to find the crew sitting, rinsing the dishes in a hasty fashion that tells Tobias that they weren’t doing any sort of washing before they had heard him coming.

“Meet me in the dining hall again in a few minutes.” he says. “We’ve got to talk battle strategy ‘fore I lose my damn mind.”

The crew’s eyes are all on him. He can feel the serrated heat of their stares, sticking in him like burs in fabric. They need him as much as he needs them.

Kolt clears her throat in the awkward silence.

“Aye aye, captain.”

* * *

 

Everyone is surprised by the amount of supplies Tobias brings to the dining table. Across its wood paneling is a thick piece of canvas paper, a series of thick charcoal chunks to serve as pens, and hand-written notes full of scratches and pen marks about the Locker.

“We have to make the floor plan for the Locker.” He starts, sweeping his hands out to flatten out the parchment. “I got a basic idea of how some of it is laid out, but there are still some iffy details.”

“Like what?” Kolt asks, wary.

“Like the specific position of guards or exactly where Malcolm would be held.”

“That seems like a pretty important set of facts, Tobias…” Wallach chimes in.

“Yeah, but—” he blanches, realizing the truth of this statement for the tenth time this afternoon. “It's what we have to work with.”

If the crew is unhappy they don't say so. Kolt silently takes a hunk of charcoal in her hand and thumbs its rough surface for a moment.

“Where do we start?” she asks.

“The Locker-” Tobias begins, sketching out an oblong shape on the parchment. “-is shaped something like this. It’s real big and real tall.”

“We knew that.” Wallach points out, unhelpfully.

“There are two guards posted at every corner and we can assume they switch post, or move to other corners — either way, there’s gotta be a blind spot. There’s always one in jails.”

“But this isn’t just any jail…” the Brick says. “It’s—”

“The _entrance,_ ” Tobias continues, unwilling to hear it. “Isn’t in the face of the building. It’s to the side, on the southern end of the prison yard. You walk right by the outdoor labor area to get to the door.”

Tobias draws an odd rectangle by his left hand to indicate the labor yard, then a pair of lines for the front door. He dots the paper where he assumes guards to be. The room is silent for a moment aside from charcoal rubbing against paper. Tobias doesn’t notice the Crew’s hesitance with the scale model display, but an uncomfortable wave passes through the cabin. Tobias’ harried hands halt as he tries to ignore the daunting silence as well as the emotions pounding through his head. How did Malcolm live like this, influenced by sheer passion and instinct rather than logical thought? It was exhausting. He shakes his head, pushing meaningless questions like that away; after all, he’ll be able to ask Malcolm once they break him out.

Tobias moves to draw more, to line and sketch, as he searches his brain for more information. With a sickening pang, he realizes it’s all he has. The possible positions of the guards and where the damn door was could only get him so far. This wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough — until they get more information on this prison, Malcolm wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon. Tobias leans back in a nearby chair, charcoal held feebly between his fingers. His bones suddenly feel like paper and glue, weighed down by all that keep them together. Malcolm was trapped. His hands are shaking, which he only notices when he moves to rub a hand over his mouth.

The crew is still watching him. He raises his eyes to them, where he finally takes in their reactions to the situation.

Kolt has adopted the tight-lipped glare that she only has when she’s trying to not be emotional. Her fingers, adorned with her ruby-and-gold rings, are clenched tight into a fist. To her left, Wallach looks just as frightened as Tobias feels; uncertainty turns his warm eyes sharp. His arms are crossed in discomfort. The Brick, bless his soul, looks like a worried parent. It makes Tobias feel ready to retch, the pity and care in his face. He turns away and bounces his leg, trying to think. But his mind is dark and smokey, like it’s been dunked under water.

“We move out tomorrow morning,” Tobias says, or thinks he says. His voice sounds distant and unfamiliar. “We should reach Zaun in three day’s time.”

“Foxtrot.” Kolt barks, leaning over the table and placing her hands on the map. “What’s gotten into you? You’re actin’ irrational. Ain’t like you.”

A murmur of agreement rolls over the other two shipmates. Tobias looks between all of them. He sees that none of them believe this is a possible feat. Upon some pondering, not even Tobias himself believes it. Wilted, he sinks into his chair, letting the charcoal clatter back onto the table. For _literally_ any other prison or any other prisoner, it would be easy. But Priggs and his men have had it out for the pirates aboard the Trifecta since the big Piltover job. A constant threat to his business, always looming over him. It was just a matter of time before they struck and he was prepared.

Of course Graves _had_ to insist on robbing the Priggs vault. Of course. But Graves’ foolhardy nature and reckless behavior never stopped Tobias from having his back before, there’s no way this should be any different.

“Graves ain’t here to be the dumb one, Kolt.” Tobias comments, cracking an empty smile. While the determination he feels isn’t light or warm, the chilled steel he faces is almost better in terms of keeping him going. After all, having Graves back would feel better than any determination could.

“We need to get him out,” he continues, leaning against the table. “He’s our captain, our partner. He’s— _Malcolm._ I can’t leave him in there.”

A pregnant silence follows that. That exhausting anticipation continues to grind at Tobias’ ribcage, and his face burns as he adds—

“Please. Help me.”

The crew shifts their weight and lets those words settle over them.

After a tortuous pause, enough to almost make Tobias stand and leave, Kolt sighs.

“I’ll be damned if he isn’t the most stubborn, pigheaded man this side of the map,” she says. “But Tobias is right. He’s our captain. He’s there for us, we gotta be there for him.”

“But no one’s ever gone to the Locker and lived.” the Brick says, wary. “We don’t even know what it looks like.”

“Then we play extra safe.” Tobias counters, standing from his seat. “We make multiple tries. Learn somethin’ new every trip. Ain’t gonna be any kinds of easy, but I’m not givin’ up till we got what we came for.”

“And if I know anythin’ about Graves, it’s that he ain’t givin’ up neither.”  Kolt seems to stand a little taller, a little prouder now. Her fire inspires Wallach, who grins and lets his eyes light up.

“It _has_ been real quiet ‘round here without him.”

“No matter how long it takes, we’re gonna get our ruckus back.” Tobias says, feeling his own mouth curl into a smile. Cold determination begins to give way to fiery passion. “Gotta match that dipshit bit by bit.”

“So it’s settled, we move out in the morning.” Kolt says, cracking her knuckles. Strangely enough, the noise still is distant and foggy in Tobias’ ears. “That about it?”

Tobias glances down at the map, bare and tan in the candlelight.

He rolls it up and collects the charcoal in his free hand.

“We’re gettin’ our captain back.”

* * *

 

The night is calm. The gulls have long gone to sleep, the crew has hunkered down early to prepare for a long day of sailing. The waves gently rock the ship like a crib, the sounds of the sea lulling all who board upon it to a wistful rest.

Except Tobias.

He tosses over for possibly the fifteenth time and stares at the empty space in the sheets. The thin mattress is slightly cratered on Graves’ side, due to the bad habit of both of them lying on his side in attempts to either stay warm or annoy Graves. Many a time Tobias has climbed into this bed with Graves already half asleep, awaiting him with an open arm and a silent invitation to get close.

A dull ache throbs through him. Another night without Malcolm’s arms or his snoring or his heady smoky presence, his warmth and his grumbling about Tobias being too clingy. The sorrow forms a lump in Tobias’ throat. He already had trouble sleeping most nights — too much in this world can chase you when you’re dreaming — but the bed felt too empty and too cold without Graves in it. Tobias sighs, tries to swallow, and gives up on trying to sleep. He slides over in the bed to the cooler, more worn part (closer to the door; Tobias had a problem with facing doors when he slept, and Graves had a problem with not being able to immediately shoot whoever barged in without invitation). His body seems to mold where Graves’ could not, filling that lonely space, letting the wrinkles in the moth-eaten sheets curl to his form, pulling the old quilt from Gods know where on the ship closer to himself. The bed still smells of both of them; Graves described it as a spice meeting a cloud of gunpowder. Tobias would rather not put a name to it, would like to sit and enjoy the barest proof that they were bonded so closely.

The vow at the dinner table seems to be gilded in gold and iron now, sitting heavy in Tobias’ empty body.

Did they give Graves a bed, at least? He knew that sometimes prisoners were kept from eating, but they had to supply _something_. Graves could sleep on anything. Tobias was aware of his tenacity when it came down to it. He’d slept on cobblestone alleyways and on wood floors.

Tobias turns over.

Did they give him a _blanket_ or maybe even a place to rest his head? Or- even a place to lay down? Was it a bed of straw or just the stone-and-mortar floor beneath him? Graves usually liked to sleep on his side, so it’ll irritate his shoulder and make it impossible for him to work with in the morning.

Tobias’ stomach twists. He tosses over again.

What if they just kept him shackled to a wall, unable to move anything but his head? What if he was already starving, already bleeding from too many places to count? What if they hurt Graves when Tobias and the Crew tried to get in?

...Graves could be dead already, and Tobias wouldn’t even know. Graves could have spoken back to the wrong prisoner or to any guard or, for fuck’s sake, he’d be the one to talk back directly to Priggs himself. Tobias’ chest tightens at the mental image of Graves beneath Prigg’s boot, old-fashioned sword to his throat. Or shanked by a sneakier prisoner.

The sharp discomfort is mixed with heavy melancholy. Tobias’ fingers tighten in the quilt.

Malcolm isn’t dead. He has to hold onto that hope, like it’s more than just wishful thinking. It’s logical — Malcolm’s tough and strong, and smarter than he looks as long as he keeps his temper. Tobias could even bargain that Malcolm has made a few comrades out of the other prisoners. He could be charming if he wanted to. That damn smile could both frighten the monsters out of the Guardian Sea and woo a siren from across the waves. Tobias’ heart jumps into his throat, like he’s still some smitten teenager.

Malcolm’s going to be okay, and when he gets back, he’ll get that smile back.  It’ll be alright as long as they play their cards right.

He finds himself drifting off to sleep after not too long, thoughts of Graves’ raucousness comforting him to a lull.

 

* * *

 

It was a storybook romance to Tobias.

Despite the looting and the pillaging and the occasional injuring-a-lot-of-people-ing, it was pretty enviable, in Tobias’ eyes. Who wouldn’t want to spend their time evading the law with their new best friend?

It was an exhilarating rush — two teenagers running, arms full of loot and pockets full of sin. They laugh hysterically, the air from the sea filling their lungs and feeding their spirits. Graves nearly fell and Tobias had to catch him by his wrist, sending them both lagging and tripping over their feet but it felt _right,_ it felt right to be running from the sound of shouting bartenders and angered men gambled out of their money. The cards practically sung in Tobias’ pocket, humming with his energy. Never had he felt so alive, running through the docks and roads, alongside his partner. _Partner_!

They burst into the old motel room they’ve holed up in for a while — rent was cheap, the room had two rickety beds, and didn’t smell too terribly of mildew and dust. Graves tossed the stolen bag full of gold, silver, and a few gold watches and expensive trinkets between the two twin beds and collapsed onto the left bed, closest to the door. Tobias quietly shut the door behind him and latched it, peering through the porthole-style window to watch for any passerby who might look a keen bit suspicious.

Graves heaved with laughter, stretching his arms above his head and crowing out in malefic glee.

“Ain’t ever seen somethin’ like that!” he said, winded. “Did’ja see the look on their faces when you pulled that ace out? Gods, it’s priceless every damn time!”

Tobias’ stomach aches with the run and laughter, and his lungs are threatening to seize, but still he smiles wide and leans against the door breathlessly.

“It was quite the show,” he said, struggling to translate his tired brain to common tongue. “Did you catch the face of the woman after she realized what we were doing? The barkeep lady?”

“Oh, no!” Graves howled, hand over his eyes. “Holy _fuck,_ she was so mad!”

Tobias sat on the edge of the bed and let the laughter leave him.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, you scared a lot of those big baddies in there. The bear is growing bigger.”

“Aw, c’mon, I’ve been workin’ hard on my roar.” Graves joked back, hitting Tobias in the leg. “Good thing I don’t need to do any hibernatin’, huh?”

“You do, every night. Trust me, you snore like a motor on a tubboat.”

“Tugboat?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”  
“Naw, you said tubboat.”

“Give me a break.”

“...Naw.”

“You’re going to bully me just because of my accent?” Tobias jibed, elbowing Malcolm as he settled against the mattress. “How crude. I could bully you for plenty else, yet I’m still a gentleman.”

“Gentleman,” Graves snorted. He turned his head away from Tobias, focusing on the ceiling. “If you’re a gentleman, ‘the _hell_ does that make me?”

Tobias paused, shifting to look Graves head-on. From this angle, with the pitiful light provided by the tiny bedside lamp, his profile was put into a soft-edged emphasis. His thick jaw cast a dark shadow over his neck, leading to his broad shoulders and barrel chest. His nose was curved and wide from what Tobias could assume was constantly having it broken. There was almost an unrefined regalness to the way his brow cut his face, leading to his cheeks and into the still-premature beard.

Tobias’ heart jumped. An unfamiliar feeling spread through him, warming his bones, putting a lit coal into his chest. If it weren’t for his better judgement, he would have scooted closer, enough to feel Graves’ heartbeat, to get a good idea of what the smell of all that mead and whiskey was like on his partner’s skin.

He cleared his throat.

“Like I said,” Tobias said, softening. “A bear.”

His tone caught Graves’ attention again. After an uncomfortable beat, Graves chuckled briefly, sounding a little forced. He moved his gaze back to Tobias, and for another moment they stared, silently. Tobias realized how deep Graves’ eye color was. At first glance, it’s just a dark greenish-blue, nothing too uncommon in Bilgewater, but Graves’ excelled. In the serene lamplight and the lingering mirth, Graves’ eyes are like the sea. Turbulent and unpredictable, dangerous and endless, sharp but always moving. Tobias’ words are caught in his throat, which suddenly was dry as a desert.

The room is suddenly stifling.

Graves raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he asked, sounding a little gruff. His smile has disappeared. Tobias shook off the feeling and rolled over onto his back to stare at a very, very interesting crack in the wall.

“How badly you need to shave.” He answered promptly. “Your beard cannot decide if it wants to be a worm or a wharf rat kit.”

“You fuckin’-” Graves grabbed the worn pillow from under his head and slammed it against Tobias’ face. “-Smarmy dickhead.”

Tobias, snickering again, threw his own pillow towards Graves’ head. “You started it by looking the way you do.”

The pillow is swung at him once again, but Tobias’ reflexes are too quick for Graves’ brute strength. As Malcolm threw his arm back, Tobias ducked out of the way, and offered a quick nudge to Graves’ side. Not enough to hurt, but enough to unbalance him and send him over the edge of the mattress. With a thick _thud_ he hit the floorboards, coupled with a resounding groan of pain. Tobias leaned over the bedside, peering down at his fallen comrade. Luckily, instead of appearing hurt, Graves took the time to start cackling again. His laugh boomed, crackled like thunder, shook the room. As though struck, Tobias began to laugh again too.

“What did we learn?” he crooned over Graves’ howling.

“Shut— the fuck up, you pushed me-”

“You started it.”

“Snake.”

As Graves rubbed a hand over his face and began to catch his breath, Tobias laid his head against his arms and exhaled slowly.

“Moron.”


	3. Downpour.

The Locker is no ordinary prison. It follows no normal code like other jailyards in Runeterra — it isn’t like the prisons in Demacia or Noxus, where the walls are thick and high and wide, sitting in the city itself. There isn’t barbed wire or a huge gate of spikes and canons. It sits, simply, in the middle of a deserted island. The island barely comes into focus while traveling along the coast of Zaun, the black smoke from the city-state’s depths mix with the small island’s own bluish-grey smog and giving the prison island a free curtain to hide it from the world. The air is heavy and hard to inhale, like breathing through molasses. The pipelines leading out from Zaun’s factories constantly gush filthy, chemical-induced water out into the sea, leaving a brownish-green trail around the island.

Tobias grimaces at the smell of rotting garbage and dying fish. This isn’t what he expected at all. They prepared for sneaking, for climbing walls and digging, for quiet fights and taking guards out one by one in secret. This wasn’t anything they had thought. His chest aches with the effort of breathing this putrid air, his head is foggy with thought and plans, his stomach aches with the thought that somewhere in that fog is Graves, suffocating, angry, possibly frightened, and—

Tobias starts as Kolt puts a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are steely and cold, hardened with determination. It’s grounding; he smiles at her before turning back to the billowing clouds. He feels like a rubber band pulled to its limit; straining to remain intact. All his joints ache with poor sleep and his stomach occasionally grinds against itself with hunger. Tobias couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep without at least knowing what they were going to be up against.

And it wasn’t what he expected.

Wallach descends from the crow’s nest, looking queasy. Apparently Tobias is not the only one feeling the effects of the air pollution — even Kolt looks a little unsteady as she watches her brother climb down and wander towards them.

“The water looks like it’s goin’ around the island…” Wallach says, gesturing over the bow. “But it’s really hard t’see anything else. All I can get is there’s a current and the island itself is small, it can’t be more than a few hundred acres.”

“An island used just for the Locker.” Kolt huffs. “Seems like Priggs, alright.”

“Captain-” the Brick lowers the spyglass and peers over his shoulder at Tobias. “You can see the Locker from here.”

Tobias, despite his suddenly frozen ligaments and stone tendons, takes a few quick strides to reach Brick’s place with Kolt in tow. Brick hands him the looking glass and he looks into it; lo and behold, there it was.

How … unimpressive.

It was a normal-looking building, no high stone walls or terrifying towers full of snipers. It is squat and unassuming, only about the size of a small street block. A simple dark grey concrete wall, small indents that probably served as windows, and a row of openings along the top of the building. There are a few turrets but they look devoid of life. There aren’t any guards to be seen on top or around the building, but the lack of plant life on the island itself makes that idea less comforting.

“That’s it?” Tobias asks, handing the glass to Kolt. “Ain’t much more than a cinder block in a bit of fog.”

“Can’t be…” Kolt blinks through the glass in disbelief. “It can’t just be… that.”

“There’s- there’s gotta be traps, right?” Wallach asks, confused. “Guards, snipers, fighters..?”

“There’s nothing.” Brick says, solemn. “It’s just the building. I couldn’t see any sign of life at all.”

Helpless, Wallach and Tobias watch Kolt as she slowly lowers the spyglass. Her eyes lower to the oil-slicked sea, as though the explanation would be found in the ripples. The trip here was riddled with anxiety and risk, with how much of the Locker was shrouded in both mystery and, literally, fog. After all that risk, there was no way that nothing was awaiting them. Kolt grips the side of the boat and it’s clear she’s straining to think of a way for the Locker to be _completely_ unguarded.

An overwhelming feeling, the same as when you miss a step down stairs, overcomes Tobias. A cold sweat breaks out in his palms. Beside him, Wallach steps towards his sister and puts a hand on her shoulder. They exchange a look that is soon turned to Tobias and Brick.

“What if it’s _not_ the Locker?” Wallach says, confirming Tobias’ fear.

“They wouldn’t ever just have a prison like this unguarded.” Kolt interjects. “If it really is the Locker, that means there’s some kind of trick. Some sort of… hidden trap. It- it can’t be unguarded like this.”

Brick exhales slowly through his nose. “There’s only one way to find out. We’ve already asked around for help, and no one had anything.”

Tobias rubs his hands over his face and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. They know nothing about this place, and coming here only made everything more complicated. No visible guards, no leads, no proper preparation for the landing — his head swims with the pressure from his hands so he releases and sighs. Nothing that any pirate or prisoner had told them about the Locker helped with this investigation either, as none of them had ever gotten close to the Locker, let alone been within it or having worked in its bowels. All Tobias could imagine were deep, cavernous cells, ceilings with thick iron stalactites dripping oil and thick, smoggy water. The guards ravenous and cruel as the light in Priggs’ eyes.

...The guards.

“Turn the ship starboard.” Tobias says, stern. He turns on his heel and steps up to the Trifecta’s quarterdeck. “We’re going to dock in Zaun.”

A resounding protest erupts from the crew, each of the trio offering an original take on ‘what the FUCK are you talking about’, including but not limited to ‘are you absolutely mad?’ (from Kolt), ‘Didn’t we just get out?’ (thanks, Brick) and something meek and inaudible around the other’s louder objections.

“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Kolt snaps over the din. “The authorities’ll be up our ass five ways to Sunday! Goin’ back is almost as suicidal as bein’ here in the first place!”

“Zaun’s the only chance we got at findin’ more information on the Locker.” he says. “We lay low, find a couple’a lowlives to talk with, and we make haste with what information we can get.”

“It’s risky, Tobias.” Brick says, uncomfortable. His hand fidgeting makes its return. “They might not know us very well, but they know you.”

“Since when have we ever backed down from somethin’ risky?” Tobias challenges, raising his voice. “This is the closest we’re gonna get to finding where they’re holding Malcolm. And I’m goin’ there with or without you.”

“Tobias, this is the sorta attitude that landed him there in the first place.” Kolt says. “Recklessness ain’t gonna get us anywhere.”

“I have to try.” Tobias says. He sets his feet, hands curling into fists. “And you all can either be with me, or against me. That’s the final word on it.”

The crew falls silent. Tobias releases the tension in his hands but his body holds fast to it, every nerve as live as a cut wire.

“If we do this, and you get killed, we’re fucking putting your body in the ocean.” Kolt sighs, half-hearted, and turns on her heel to the helm of the ship. Tobias watches as she and the other two file into their respective duties onboard, feeling cold. He’s read fiction where the hero orders his friends to turn and do the impossible, to face their fears. He was supposed to feel good, staring danger right in the face. But it felt empty, hollow.

He isn’t sure how Malcolm could do it so much.

His heartbeat rolls with a slow thrum in his chest and he forces his melancholy away. He decides, instead, to descend into the quarters to start looking for more appropriate clothing to wear on the streets of Zaun.

—

Touching down in Zaun was hardly complicated on its own. Not too many Bilgewater ships docked there, and looked fairly out of place next to the steel-and-iron enforced, warship-like tugboats of Zaunite waters. But now, holding known fugitives and criminals, the Trifecta had to be tied down in a more discrete location. It took a while to find somewhere, especially with the mounting stress in her reluctant captain’s orders infecting her other crew members. Eventually they were able to dock in a far-off, dilapidated dock far from the main hub of the docks. Brick and Tobias were the designated sleuths this time around, stepping off the gangplank with a stern purpose in their strides. They found the closest clothing store they could find and donned Zaunite fashions — dark, flexible work clothes, made of reds and greys and blacks. To cover his face, Tobias even went as far as to take a handful of soot he found and smear it across his cheeks. It might be menial, but at this point he was a greatly wanted man. Brick barely stood out, even as a high-price criminal; his blond hair cut short, his tall body even seeming normal with how he held himself. Tobias could appreciate that; he walked, talked, and acted like a civilian. Perfect for an incognito assault.

It wasn’t safe to venture too far from the docks, so they were forced to stay near the port’s closest breweries and pubs. Bilgewater wasn’t the only county with a drinking habit, after all. And the two city-states were neighbors, so Tobias could safely assume that a lot of Bilgewater’s exported rum made its way to Zaun’s shores. The duo decide those places were their best bets; they could easily slip away if it came down to a bar fight, and the near nonexistent Zaunite police force wouldn’t come to peruse the aisles of the local seedy bar.

The only problem was that the closest pub to the docks was a couple blocks away, leaving the Brick and Tobias essentially severed from the group. Not a long walk back, but a great enough distance to where the Brick seemed a bit skittish about continuing any further.

Tobias had long stopped feeling dread or anxiety. Only grit and determination filled him as he stepped across the threshold and into the pub.

It’s a lot quieter than a bar in Bilgewater would be. There isn’t the constant chime of some drunken sailor yelling the slurred words to a shanty, and there’s not lively music playing or dancing. Hell, there’s not even fighting. The bar’s quite empty, actually. The exhausted looking barmaid swirls a gray rag around a shotglass and eyes Tobias as as he strides in, before lazily looking back at her work. Tobias makes a note of that. If this bar is empty like this on a normal basis, that means two things. One, they are under extra scrutiny. Less faces to hide amongst. If any of the patrons recognized him, they’d be done for. Two, it meant less people to question. Both a positive and a negative, Tobias regards coldly — less time wasted, but less results gathered.

His jaw was beginning to ache again. His shoulders begin to creak with the weight of their task. For a passing moment, just a _blink_ , Tobias realizes how impossible this mission might be. But as soon as it comes, it’s gone, and Tobias has numbed himself. As easily as a Zaunite himself would be, Tobias walks to the bar and seats himself a few chairs down from a portly gentleman and a spidery looking woman who are mumbling to each other. The Brick stays outside, right near the rusty window. Watch duty, ready to let Tobias know of any trouble. All according to the plan so far.

Tobias taps the bar with two fingers, a habit taken up from Ionian restaurants. The barmaid sneers at him before realizing he’s asking for a drink, and without asking she pours him a glass of a pale, shimmering beverage. Tobias takes it wordlessly and sniffs it — and almost reels away. It smells like nothing. The pungent stench of alcohol is almost nonexistent. It smells like _water_. What the fuck? No wonder Zaun was so miserable, if this is what they had for a beverage.

He makes like he’s taking a sip before clearing his throat and grabbing the attention of the patrons down the way. They turn, slowly, to face him. The gaunt woman has an enormous gash across her face, turning what could be considered an elegant appearance into one of paper mache and tragedy. Yeesh. The man was a little more appealing to look at, though not by much. The portliness didn’t reach his face, somehow, as though some sort of disastrous plague had sucked the fat out of his cheeks, leaving him sunken and waxy looking. Tobias’ throat closes up at the thought of catching some sort of flu from this man.

Graves better fucking kiss his boots when they get him out.

“Nice day, ain’t it?” Tobias says, tilting his glass up in greeting. “Good and clear.”

The two seem unamused. His mouth feels dry. Maybe he does need to take a sip of the drink.

“I’m lookin’ for some information, if either of you are willin’ to share.” he continues, actually drinking this time. It tastes like warm spittle mixed with uncured goat milk. Tobias nearly gags. This is probably what was killing the guy next to him.

“What kind of information?” the woman asks. Her voice is sharp and rough, like sandpaper. Her Zaun accent is thick as custard. “Perhaps we may trade.”

“Don’t, Mila.” the man chimes in, with a surprisingly high voice. He sounds more like a teenager than a gruff man seemingly rotting from the skull down. “Looks tricky. Wouldn’t trust him with much.”

Tobias twitches, but remains passive.

“Forgive me. Don’t mean no harm.” Tobias says, lilting. Intonation is key, as he’s learned. He smiles and he feels it burning his teeth. “I’m just trying to help a friend.”

Mila eyes him warily.

“Franklin, I don’t see why we cannot help this poor foreign boy.” she coos, tilting her head at him. He feels ill. “Tell me, boy, what is it you need?”

“Mila—”

Tobias cuts in before Franklin can get a word by her. “It’s about the Locker, ma’am.”

Mila falls quiet. Franklin’s greenish complexion turns a strange eggshell color.

“What … about it?” Franklin leans forward on one arm.

Tobias decides to play the innocent foreigner card — works every time with people like Mila. She must be a mother, or was one previously. A very patronizing, condescending, slightly xenophobic mother. He turns to her and tries to look as forlorn and tired as possible, despite the resting ball of metal weighing his lungs.

“Y’see, ma’am, my friend — we’ve been friends for ages, yeah?” he fiddles his hands, a good touch. “Lost a relative in there… He was wonderin’ if there was any way to try an’ contact people from the inside, t’see if he could see his long lost auntie one last time.”

Mila looks at Franklin, and her lips purse tight.

“Boy, you’re messin’ with shit you don’t understand.” Franklin leans closer, and Tobias nearly faints. The stench of carrion wafts off of Franklin like a hot, rotten summer breeze. “Nobody’s been in or out of the Locker without a guard. And guards don’t come out.”

Tobias’ hands start shaking.

“But... sir,” he falters, and this time it’s not entirely in character. “There’s gotta be some way for my friend to get what he needs.”

“My child, I suggest that you stop looking for the impossible.” Mila’s words grind against Tobias’ skull, like nails scraping against bone. “Before you get yourself into trouble.”

Tobias resists the urge to glance around the bar, but he realizes that it’s probably not as empty as it looks. He feels eyes on him, cold and scrutinizing. His chest contracts.

“...My apologies.” he stands to leave, and he feels his knees quake under his weight. “I’ll be leavin’ you two alone, then.”

He takes a few coins out of his pocket and tosses them onto the bar counter, at which the barmaid finally crows out a soft, horrible laugh. He glances at her, briefly, confused. Without breaking eye contact, she spits into his glass. With a horrifying realization, he realizes why his drink tasted that way. He offers a nod to her and her patrons as he heads out.

He dry heaves in the alleyway for a few minutes before the Brick decides it’s time to move on to the closest bar.

* * *

 

Tobias slams his hands down on the secretary desk, nearly toppling his candle over and ruining the map he’d so carefully scribbled down. He’d decided he wasn’t really up for dinner after his … eventful day, and had let the crew know that by aggressively sliding his plate away and leaving the room. He was acting out of character, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. He and the Brick had visited four different bars, all of which gave him the same sort of behavior — curious at his nationality in this area, but utterly repulsed by his thirst for knowledge about the Locker. He was being driven up a wall and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The lack of food in his stomach and the overhanging anxiety of it all was finally going to break him. The absence of Graves in his life was certainly a deciding factor in when he was going to die, he was sure of it — and this time, he wasn’t being melodramatic about it.

He slumps down against the wood chair, letting the dull ache in his lower back ground him for a moment. There had to be something, _anything_ he could learn before charging into the Locker headfirst. He couldn’t ever do that, not even when Malcolm was by his side.

He was never on a deadline like this with Malcolm, either. The thought makes Tobias feel small, helpless. An emotion he’s despised since his exile.

He forces his eyes back onto the map on the desk, despite their stinging. In the top-left corner he’s scrawled quick notes, copied over from the best of his and The Brick’s memories of what the bar patrons told him around their spite. In Tobias’ sharp, slanted handwriting, it says;

_Can’t see guards from the outside. But they’re there. Definitely._

_There’s not many prisoners. Mostly guards._ _  
_ _Surrounded by moat? Care._ __  
Door by south end. Can’t reach direct from Zaun.

_Cells have one tiny window. Only for rats._

_Torturing occurs at night._

Tobias scans these words again, and all together they could mean victory. But he couldn’t put them in a way that made it seem at all possible. They couldn’t see the guards; they didn’t know where the cells were located, let alone where Malcolm’s was; they couldn’t even get close enough to the door because of the current around the island.   
Tobias’ eyes begin to sting more in frustration. He rubs the heels of his hands against his brow and sighs. The night was wearing thin, as was his energy, but he was running out of time. If Malcolm wasn’t dead already — Tobias swallows that thought as fast as he can — then there wasn’t much time left before he could be.

Tobias stands and steps away from the desk, allowing himself to rest his eyes for a moment. His gaze lingers on the port window above his and Graves’ shared cot, from which the moon shines her glimmering sideways smile down at the black ocean. He takes the map and sits slowly on the bed, curling up against the headboard. The creaking sound of the springs bending and settling under his weight brings him a sense of comfort as he holds the old parchment in his lap. The moon and the candle contrast their warm light down on the map, a glimmering clash between gold and silver. He reads the list again- twice- a third time. Nothing comes to him. With a sigh, Tobias lays back on the bed.

The light from the night sky surrounds him in a comforting glow, the moon’s facade just out of periphery of the window. Stars dazzle amidst wispy timber clouds, giving way to an expansive black-blue. As terrified as he was of heights, Tobias vaguely wonders how it’d feel to be up there. He rolls onto his side to face the window better, head crooked in his arm. A cold, bottomless feeling of dread creeps up on him as he watches the stars glitter quaintly. Their cold, unfeeling light. It’s empty. It’s enormous. It means somewhere, through his single window, Graves _had_ to be looking at the same sky. He has to see them. They’d sailed the world together, they _knew_ the stars were unending and wide-reaching.

Could he see the moon, too? Tobias thought the moon was kinder. A lonesome companion, watching over the world, with as little invasion as possible.

As he’s thinking of the moonlight somehow finding the perfect angle to shine into Graves’ cell, a shooting star crosses the sky and as the tail end of it disappears from Tobias’ view, a most terrible feeling passes over him.

He sits up fast, knocking the map to the floor with a faint flutter. But he can’t hear it. Not over the sound of his heart, beating to the sound of rushing river water, in his ears.

 _“A shooting star,” B_ _unică said, pointing a foreboding finger to the sky. “Means death is on her way.”_

It was a child’s superstition — a petty belief of the River, rooted in coincidence and nothing else. _Nothing_ else.

Tobias raises his hand to his mouth to keep from- he didn’t know what. Choking? Yelling? Crying?

It was just a myth. A fallacy. It _had_ to be.

The map. _Grab the map._

Tobias turns and scrambles for the parchment, holds it, crumples the edges between his shaking fingers. The charcoal letters burn his eyes and curse his name in the voice of his delusional grandmother.

_It was a superstition. It had to be._

The River was not going to take anything else away from Tobias Foxtrot.

* * *

 

Rain slammed against the thick glass windows, making the panes shudder and shake with the effort of keeping the elements out. Tobias quickly realized that weather in Bilgewater, much like its citizens, was rarely mild. The sun beat down violently upon the necks of sailors and burning the noses of any fair-faced fool without a cap. The wind blew with such conviction that if you weren’t careful you’d often lose your hat or loose parchment. And now? Heavy rainfall practically hammered on heads with watery fists. Tobias knew better than to even step outside for too long, or his hair would go from manageable and braided to a curly, frizzy mess.

But because of his pickiness, they were now stranded in a building very far inland. Tobias tore his gaze away from the windows and to Malcolm, who sat at the other side of a table with his legs under his secretive woodcarving. He already had a fairly good shape going — it looked to be a shield with a snake carved into the side of it, though it was still a draft of sorts. The sound of his chipping and carving paired with the thunder and patter outside made Tobias feel dazed, relaxed, and unfortunately sleepy. He often found himself zoning out, just dozing with his head crooked in his crossed arms, thinking of water sloshing against wood boats and the smell of rain on leather. He had to force himself alert a few times, dealing with unpleasant tingling and goosebumps, before he decided he had sat through enough naptime.

He extended one long leg under the table to kick Malcolm in the shin.

Malcolm, sturdy as a rock and ten times as stubborn, simply grunted at the intrusion.

“Malcolm.” Tobias said, nudging him again.

“Mmm?”

“I’m bored.”

“That’s your fault.” Malcolm said, pointing an accusatory knifepoint at Tobias, sending a stray chip flying. “You’re the one who wanted to seek shelter before we even started lookin’ for stuff to do.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Tobias sniffed, continuing to bother his companion’s knee. “You gruff types are always so easy to entertain…”

He trailed off upon spotting the shavings now practically coating the table below Malcolm’s busy hands. How could this man make such a mess without moving anywhere? Tobias was astounded by the actual space he seemed to be taking up (in this tiny and dim building, he already looked like he was taking up multiple chairs) but now he was making a mess?

With a sigh, Tobias reached across the table and swiped the shavings into Malcolm’s awaiting lap with deliberate slowness.

Malcolm, with a soft _‘come on, Tobias.’_ of indignance, aggressively swiped the shavings onto the floor. His glower is met by a well-meaning simper, one that Malcolm could never seem to stay very angry at. He quickly deflated — much to Tobias’ amusement — and _finally_ puts his knife down.

“If you’re so bored, why’ont you read something?” he said, gesturing around the building. “You’re the smart type, ain’t you? You gotta like reading.”

“Reading?” Tobias hesitated. Malcolm didn’t know (well, it’s not like he ever asked). “… Read what?”

Malcolm raised a bushy eyebrow at him, seemingly at a loss for words.

“It’s a fuckin’ _library,_ Foxtrot.” he said. “Ain’t you ever seen one before?”

“Of course I’ve seen one before.” Tobias lied. He stuck his nose in the air, mocking haughtiness. “I’m just— not sure what to read. That’s all.”

“Didn’t you mention somethin’ about folktales or some shit?” Malcolm supplied. “There’s a whole section of different ‘lore from all ‘round Runeterra. Why you’d ever steal from a library when there’s more than enough banks, I’ll never know…”

He trailed off as he began to carve again. The shield now has a more shield-y shape, including a sharp crowned top and an angular fit to the sides. Tobias would honestly rather sit here bored until the storm blows over then try to go find something to _read._

But Tobias had his pride on the line here. He and Graves had become fairly close in the few months they’d been partners, but he was certain he wouldn’t be able to face Graves the same way again if he found out. So, bravely, Tobias stood and glanced at the rows of shelves behind Malcolm. For all the mind-numbing studying of details he did, Tobias never really looked at the world beyond Malcolm or the windows. The shelves are befitting of the Bilgewater aesthetic in that they are somehow all covered, in some percentage, with moss. The bent and concave rows seemed to crumple under the weight of these tomes, some of which are bigger than the bricks that made up the building itself. Some shelves were beginning to fully fall apart, with cinderblocks replacing places in the wood framing. Upon closer inspection Tobias was surprised it all hadn’t fallen apart earlier. One of the shelves he spotted had an anchor on it. Like an actual, authentic anchor. He approached it and even saw barnacles and the sprinkle of red and black from where the paint was beginning to dapple.

Might as well start here, he thought.

He walked into the aisle, immediately taken aback by the presence of the ocean between these shelves. It was as if these books had fallen into the ocean and had soaked up her stories like some sort of neglected sponge. Tobias could almost smell the sea salt and grumpiness of sailors in here. But what struck him worse was the number of books on these shelves. If the librarian came over and told him that the weight of the books was really what was crushing the rows, not the enormous piece of iron to the left of them.

His mouth ran dry.

...The titles were on the spines. Some were completely rubbed off, some the letters were still there but the goldleaf had begun to peel. But a vast majority were still in great condition, with no signs of damage except the occasional dent or crumpled, warped page sticking out from the side. They seemed to beckon someone to investigate, calling for hands with the curly lettering on the spines and tales from across the world…

He reached for one on the top shelf that looked a bit older. The texture surprised him, almost as though it was bound in a stricken fabric. He tested its weight in his hand, spine up and pretending to read it for judgement. He takes a peripheral glance around. No one within eyeshot was paying him any mind. He could stand here for as long as he liked, hypothetically. If no one came to check in this aisle, he had the opportunity to literally just stand around until this storm passed—

A young boy came by, arms full of tomes, and began to restack them to Tobias’ right. The boy gave him a suspicious, almost threatening look as he was working, which was Tobias’ cue to walk away.

Malcolm, somehow, had made even more of a fucking mess in the short time Tobias had been absent from his side. He didn’t look up from his work as Tobias took his seat again, thumping the book down on the table. Tobias waited, apprehension creeping like spider legs up and down his bones. Still Malcolm paid him no mind. His hands ran steady along the wood, cutting it away bit by bit. Tobias watched him work, glancing from the carving to the somber concentration on his face. An involuntary smile crept onto Tobias, the aversion to his book forgotten. Malcolm’s brow was lowered, his eyes bright and distant, as if the detailed work is taking all his energy.

Malcolm looked up, eyebrow raised.

“Did you find somethin’.” Less a question, more of a way for Graves to get Tobias to stop staring.

Tobias sighed. He fingers the old book’s front wearily.

“Yes. I think it’s a good one.” He said.

“Well, I’m not gonna stop you.” Malcolm said. He glanced down at the book and immediately narrowed his eyes.

“... Tobias. That’s a log book. It’s not going to have anything… interesting.”

“Who says?” Tobias challenged, ignoring the festering shame about to be brought forth. “You don’t know me all that well, Malcolm. I enjoy the finer details of life, like the exciting log of a… captain.”

To prove his point, he opened the book with a flourish. The old, damp pages flop unsatisfyingly against the desk, and before Tobias is a long list of… something. There were dates scrawled on the left side of every page, followed by a series of dots, then harried scribbling. Even if Tobias _could_ have read it, he wasn’t sure he’d want to. Each entry was hardly more than two or three broken sentences long, from what Tobias could interpret. A few words he caught were not helpful; he recognized “sea” and “gold”, but nothing else.

He could feel Malcolm watching him, frowning.

He met his eyes defiantly and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came.

“Well?” Malcolm started, snidely. “Interesting enough for you?”

“Oh, yes.” Tobias was starting to stumble. Now he just wanted to leave as soon as possible, but the rain refused to let up. He can hear it pattering outside, like it’s mocking him from behind the glass. “It’s intriguing, apparently he—… sailed the sea. With gold.”

“Tobias, can you even read?” Malcolm asked. He clearly meant to be joking, but Tobias felt his face flush.

“Of course I can read, I’m the smart one here.” he said, putting an offended hand to his chest. “Don’t mock me like this. Can _you_ read?”

“Tobias-”

“Stop, Malcolm, before I laugh myself to death.” Tobias went on, pushing the book away from him.

“Tobias.” Malcolm said, more forcefully this time. “Why are you gettin’ so defensive. It’s just a joke.”

Tobias could have been on fire and he wouldn’t have questioned it, from how hot his face was getting. “You’re not very funny, is all.”

“... Can you not read?” he asked.

Tobias’ hands curl into themselves. His arms followed slowly, moving to hold themselves close to Tobias’ stomach.

“...I can read things written in River tongues.” he slowly said. “But reading the common tongue isn’t a skill taught to most of—” he blanched. “Them.”

Graves remained silent.

“Listen, it isn’t that big of a deal.” he said. He pushed his chair back to stand, sliding the blasted book back his way. “It’s never been important and it won’t be.”

Graves didn’t protest. He stared for just a moment longer, enough to make the heat under Tobias’ skin rise to his head, only to shrug and roll his shoulders. Then turned back to his carving, chipping away.

Should Tobias have been irritated by that? His silence felt less judgemental than he’d expected, but maybe he thought it was funny and was just trying to keep from laughing. Though, Malcolm never hesitated in the past to laugh at Tobias’ shortcomings in terms of language barriers. He stood, silent, for a while before Malcolm finally decided to glance up.

“What?” he raised a brow, speaking through the side of his mouth like he usually does. “Don’t have t’get all huffy about it. It’s not like half this damn city can read, anyway.”

Tobias set his jaw indignantly.. He couldn’t _not_ read — he wasn’t that fucking incompetent. He just came from a different place, learned a different language with an entirely different way of communicating.

Graves huffed at his companion. “Just put the schedule back, Tobias, if you’re gonna pout about it.”

“I am not pouting,” Tobias lied, not even bothering to try and make it convincing. “I’m just admiring the view.”

Graves gave him a look somewhere between surprise and bemusement, completely with half-lidded eyes and that tired, seemingly perpetual frown.

“Put the fuckin’ book back.”

The air around Tobias seemed so hot it felt cold. He fought the dry lump in his throat — Graves didn’t know him like that, and he had no room to assume he did. Still, the aggravated tone regarding something Tobias still held a lot of swallowed shame for made his stomach tighten into unforgiving knots. Malcolm’s opinion of him really shouldn’t mean that much to him.

Tobias stood slowly, going to put the shipment schedule back. He didn’t return to the table until the rain let up, when he had to rouse Graves from what appeared to be a very peaceful snooze. Tobias had eventually managed to quell that unfortunate feeling in the pit of his gut, while Graves seemed completely uninterested in the discussion they’d had not an hour ago.

Tobias didn’t understand why _that_ upset him almost as much as Graves snapping at him had. He kept most snarky remarks to himself, though. Most of them.

The world outside was shimmering with the rain droplets left by the overhead visitors. A gaggle of green and gold-painted men — worshippers of the Bearded Lady, Tobias was taught — passed by, looking in high spirits. They always seemed a little more rambunctious with the passing storms. Tobias couldn’t help but agree; the sea looked a new sort of calm, as if having just been woken from a relaxing slumber like Tobias’ own companion had. The world smells, for once, of brackish or even fresh water. The grime of the docks had momentarily been wiped away, and the dripping fool’s gold lining on every other house made the bilge look more like a port worthy of a poorer neighborhood in Piltover.

Graves took a deep, slow breath.

“Y’know,” he said, catching Tobias’ attention. “If you’re really that put off by not bein’ able t’read…”

Tobias’ heart clenched, briefly. Just enough to spark the twitch of a brow. Graves didn’t notice, or at least didn’t react to it.

He’s going to mock him for being sensitive. Tobias shouldn’t take it seriously. It’s just what those growing up on the harsh streets of Bilgewater did.

“I could… teach y’how t’do it…”

Graves’ words were almost lost on Tobias. The sheer outrage of it all is fairly astounding, after all. He couldn’t stop himself — he let out a quiet, perplexed chuckle.

“You? Teach _me_ how to do something?” Tobias said. “That is almost as ridiculous as anything I’ve heard out on these docks.”

“Would you shut up? Gods, I’m _tryin’_ to be _nice._ You could use a few lessons in’at, too.”

“Oh, no, I’m not trying to be mean.” Tobias chirped. “Just did not think you could read.”

It earned him a hard sock in the arm. Tobias hissed, cradling his arm, suddenly sure of bruising. He shouldered Malcolm back and grumbled over the unnecessary roughhousing.

“Why do you want to help me?” he asked, after having what he saw as an appropriate time to pout.

“What, do they not have friends where you come from?” Malcolm retorted, leaving just enough room in his voice for a vague kindness to alleviate the pointed intention of the message. “Thought I’d… y’know. Help you out.”

Tobias raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the canary and you’re the cat.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Graves snorted. “Do you want the goddamn help or not.”

A healthy pause. Tobias took the time in between the question and his answer to study Graves’ face — looking, perhaps, for a joke or a ‘psyche! You fucking loser!’ in his eyes. And, as far as Tobias could tell, he was being earnest. Something sort of unfamiliar washed over Tobias, a gentle and soothing calm that was barely masking a deep apprehension.

“I’ll think on the offer.” he said, a little too quietly.

Graves nodded.

“I’m takin’ that as a yes, because I know by this time you’re too damn stubborn to say anything close to it.”

Tobias grinned again, and the calm overtakes the apprehension by a mile.

“You flatter me, Malcolm.”

And while it takes a second for it to come, Malcolm falteringly smiles back.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Foxtrot.”


End file.
